Because my snobbish mom — whom I helplessly adore — probably never watched one in her life.
Daytime television, serial dramas, soap operas, telenovelas.
Because she was “educated,” and our shelves held Proust and Whitman and Beloved;
our tables were strewn with well-thumbed copies of The New Yorker and The…
January 27th, 2017
To My Beloved Community,
When I was tiny, my parents went to a wine-tasting (or something) and left me in the care of a young man who was somehow related to our across-the-street neighbors. At some point in the evening, he took me into my…
I have friends who believe in God or god or spirits or breath or the sacred or the ancestors
(or some combination).
They read daily scripture, chant blessings and mantras, sing praises and prayers,
over and over.
And for most of my life I have thought: not me.
When my child was born, my big brother leaned over the bassinet in the NICU and said, “It’s so wild, Urs. I mean, genetically, they’re 50 percent Joel and 50 percent you, but already — already! — they’re 100 percent Augie B.”
A class, too, is both unmistakably constitutive of…
A White Settler Educator Cuts Up Her Textbook
By Ursula Wolfe-Rocca
In 2017, the Oregon Legislature passed Senate Bill (SB) 13 directing the Oregon Department of Education to create K-12 Native American Curriculum for inclusion in Oregon public schools and provide professional development to educators.
A is for Appropriate
I am a U.S. history teacher in the United States. I struggle mightily with my use — in the course of my teaching — of collective pronouns: “our country” or “our nation” or “our laws.” The unity suggested by these collective pronouns is challenged by the facts of daily life…